The Bright Star and the Prince
by Disco Shop Girl
Summary: There are three things that give Chuck Bass strength at Thanksgiving. One is Blair Waldorf. The other two are his Bright Star and his Prince. Set into the future, sometime after the first half of season 5.


A high-pitched ding echoed distantly across the apartment and two very sensitive dog-ears perked up, catching the sound. The dog's mottled honey-coloured head lifted into the air, raising a dark wet nose and sniffing inquisitively.

Monkey sensed something.

There was one human member of the opulent penthouse who counted this dog as his best friend. So much so that he liked to think he was attuned to the canine. If he knew what attuned meant.

That little boy, a very observant human with three full years of life under his Italian leather belt, was intently stirring a big wooden spoon in a somewhat wobbly circle, covering most of the even bigger mixing bowl. He was balancing on the tips of small toes safely encased within his warm woollen socks and shoes he would grow out of before the month was done.

Helping, that's what he was doing. Perched atop a sturdy white chair, trying to give himself enough height to see over the rim of his important job stirring within the bowl. All morning he had been ensconced in their large marble and glass kitchen, diligently working as the smell of lunch cooking slowly permeated the air. Alongside his energetic mother and bouncing sister were cooking as well, both concentrating on their own tasks.

But as soon as Monkey's honey-coloured head looked up, his brown-haired human one did too.

"Monkey?" he looked his beloved companion in the eye. They shared a glance and nothing more. Immediately, his head whipped to the door, almost as if he had read Monkey's mind, as if he too heard the sound signalling the arrival of the elevator to their penthouse.

He abandoned his wooden spoon and it dropped from his hand with a loud smack. Hastily he clambered down from the chair he was perched on, scurrying for the tiled marble.

"Careful," his mother warned.

"I am," he assured, grasping the chair back to make sure he didn't fall until his small wing-tip clad feet made contact with the floor.

"Where are you going?" his mother asked as he ran to the kitchen door and pushed it open.

A dark male figure was stepping out from the elevator and strolled into the foyer beyond, breathing life into the otherwise abandoned room for everyone who saw him.

"Daddy!" he squealed in excitement, his guess proving correct.

"Hello my prince," his father's voice carried, seeming to light up at the sight of his eager greeting party. A hand lifted, slicking back his older, darker hair and finished the movement by relinquishing his work briefcase beside the implacably arranged vase of flowers.

The minute the engraved handle was out of his fingers, every demand from the world outside this apartment went with it.

The energised momentum of little feet carried the ecstatic three-year old at a quick unsteady pace, bolting to make it into his hero's orbit. Luckily his father dropped into a kneel and plucked him right from the air, swooping the toddler into his tightly hugging arms before speed and marble combined to add another bruise to his son's bumpy forehead.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" he was barely more than a baby and stumbled over both words but his adoring parent didn't care.

Two lips pressed to his pale forehead and wished an equally cheerful "Happy Thanksgiving" to his son. "You look busy. Are aprons in this season?" he brushed his hand at the flour that was rapidly transferring off the protective covering and onto his Paul Smith tie.

Though he was clearly doing it for show. Little hands brushed at Daddy's chest too, to help get the flour off, but neither of them particularly worried if the silk was ruined forever.

"We're cooking," he announced. "Mommy says if you wear an apron then you don't hurt your clothes," he explained solemnly. The apron got pulled forward a little to reveal a soft green fabric beneath, still untouched by the trials of cooking Thanksgiving lunch.

"I see," the older man peaked in. "That's a very sharp sweater," he complimented, rubbing the soft cashmere that was keeping his baby's chest warm. "I think I have one just like it."

It was the ultimate compliment. His son positively beamed at the comparison and the smaller Bass wrapped an arm around his father's neck in a quick hug.

"Really?" he demanded excitedly.

His father nodded seriously, touching the little hand that kept itself around his neck, steading his little body reflexively.

"We're making Pumpkin Pie," he chirped like an excited little bird as he was carried back to the kitchen.

"With Dorota?"

"No, with Mommy!"

The kitchen door opened under the father's firm push to reveal his immaculate wife and intent daughter standing at the kitchen island.

"Daddy!" the little girl looked up from where she was intently mashing into a bowl of orange goo. His nearest star, always beaming happiness. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

His heart melted at the sight of them, his two women. The younger's light brown hair was held back by a new Chloé headband that complimented the deep blue in her dress. It was the style her mother had favoured two decades before.

And Blair. Elegant, resplendent Blair who no longer wore headbands but had an elegant silver comb sweeping her hair from one side of her face. Mistress of his heart and home and half his business. In days gone by her long dark waves being swept up would pull his eyes to her bare nape and make his mouth water. Now even the glossy locks loose and free could not prevent the desire to place his lips on her neck and begin laving kisses.

His tongue wet his lips involuntarily at the very sight of her.

She met his eyes in surprise and he saw a brief spark of excitement in them too. Then they turned and she coolly looked away. Oh it was like that, was it?

His first-born, his girl, was standing on her own chair and letting Blair guide her hands. It only took a glance for Chuck to deduce they were working on the Waldorf signature dish. Pumpkin Pie – something he'd come to enjoy almost as much as Blair did when annually happy memories started to accumulate.

Upon his arrival, his baby version of Blair held out her sticky orange fingers, beckoning him for a hug. Without pause he crossed the kitchen and let her little hands wrap around his neck to briefly choke him.

He could feel the warmth of mashed pumpkin dripping down his neck almost immediately and wanted to laugh. He would be saying goodbye to this Armani shirt for all the stains it was acquiring, though not a word of protest escaped his lips.

"Hello bright star," he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Happy Thanksgiving."

He stepped over to the abandoned chair alongside the bench top and relinquished the squirming little boy back to his important position. Just peering over the rim of his bowl and the pile of flour and crumbs surrounding it.

Then Chuck got devious and slinked behind the love of his life, mischievously wrapping both arms around his frosty wife.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he kissed her cheek like a rascal, then buried his face into her neck and nuzzled freely.

"I thought you weren't coming back for lunch," Blair's tone was hostile and she didn't melt into his arms like he'd hoped.

He moved his thumb over her hip bone and placed his lips to her ear. After all, he was Chuck Bass and he didn't get Blair Waldorf to marry him then bear both his children by abandoning pursuit at the first sight of a bad mood.

"You love Thanksgiving," he justified sweetly, running his nose up the side of her neck and knowing she couldn't help surrendering.

"Didn't stop you from going to the hotel this morning," she griped, clearly annoyed at his early disappearance.

"And I will make _that_ up to you this evening," he purred in promise, touching the tip of his tongue to her earlobe.

He didn't see her eyes roll back in pleasure but he didn't need to see her reaction, to know it had gone down well. Grinning, he gently rocked from side to side, insinuating himself closer in a subtle dance.

"So one can assume that everything is _fine_," she snarkily pointed out, still Blair Waldorf and wanting to hear she was right. That he should have stayed with her like she demanded in her sleepy haze five hours ago.

"No," he said softly, so the children couldn't hear. His ultra-chipper mood slipped briefly as he whispered intimately to the one person he trusted with every secret he had. "But you love Thanksgiving," he repeated. "I'll deal with it later."

Blair noticeably softened, her body relaxed and she melted back into him. In that moment he took all the comfort he needed. He felt her cover his arms and the memory of what was going down at his first hotel seemed to slip away like a leaf on the autumn breeze.

"Chuck?" she prompted in her secret, the-kids-shouldn't-hear-this voice. Her head turned to the side so she could catch a glimpse of him.

Their eyes met meaningfully. She looked worried.

"Tomorrow," he put the conversation off. Today he just wanted to savour the day with his beloved and their little ones. The disaster in progress at the Empire could certainly wait twenty-four hours.

He touched her wrist, where she had chosen to wear her silver charm bracelet for the holiday. A smile quirked back onto his lips and he thoughtfully ran his fingers over the string of dangling ornaments. This particular bracelet and its first figurine were a gift from him, when his life stopped falling apart. It was the week she stopped being a French princess and finally fought back to save Blair Waldorf.

Compared to the train wreck his life had been up to that moment, what was happening in his professional life today was inconsequential. The Empire in meltdown had become something he could literally walk away from. It hadn't been the most important thing in his life for years. He'd realised that, the moment he'd walked into his grand lobby this morning and the panicking manager rushing towards him hadn't even raised his heart rate.

Thoughtfully he touched Blair's smooth cheek with his fingertips and led her lips to his, kissing her gently.

"Later," he promised to fill her in.

She waited a beat then nodded acceptingly. Though he knew he'd just made a promise he wouldn't be allowed to break. Blair didn't just have him heart and soul. She had him mind and body too, and she would force every word out of him, he had no doubt about that.

They shared a last lingering, laden look.

"So we're making pie," he raised his voice, addressing the kids as well.

"Someone needs help with the crust," Blair immediately chimed in, gesturing with her head to their mini-man and the mega-mess he was making.

Chuck smiled, touched his lips to her neck again, then relinquished her spectacular body from his arms and moved over to their vibrant, if somewhat over-enthusiastic, son.

"Mommy, does flour go in the bowl?" Chuck very seriously enquired of his wife, surveying the mess of wheat that seemed to cover every surface from benchtop to floor.

Meanwhile he trailed his fingertips along Blair's back and watched her shudder from the corner of his eye with satisfaction. Then he encircled his boy.

The little one was standing on a chair to give himself enough height to reach the bench and didn't even blink when he was subsumed into his father's embrace.

When Bart Bass had deigned to make physical contact with his only son, Chuck had jumped in surprise every time. To the little prince being embraced by his parents was completely natural.

The realisation made caramel coloured eyes light up with as much delight as his mess-making children. Hastily he discarded his jacket and in seconds was rolling up his shirtsleeves above his elbows. He quickly surveyed the bowl where the piecrust was supposedly being mixed under his son's enthusiastic stirring. Half the flour was gone, to be found later by Dorota's expert cleaning skills. The butter remained a single, unincorporated lump in the middle.

"Flour goes in the bowl," Blair confirmed with years of Waldorf-pie-making experience under her belt.

Chuck smiled, gently enveloping the growing hand until it was dwarfed by his own and they both clutched the big wooden spoon. "Let me help with the very important job of stirring," he offered, moving the implement in a more consistent circle.

Like a marsupial baby, the littlest Bass fit comfortably into the cradle of his father's arms and together they intently worked on getting the pie crust up to scratch.

The father stole a sly glance to his side where their daughter was enthusiastically mashing pumpkins down to make the filling and Blair was sprinkling aromatic spices into her mixture. Both sets of female heads were covered by long sable hair falling in soft cresting waves, the younger showing echoes, promise of one day looking exactly like her mother. Except for the faint red highlights – he sometimes saw those in his own reflection.

"Daddy can I have a big balloon like from the parade?" his daughter asked quite thoughtfully.

He briefly quirked a genuine smile. He loved her but he wasn't stupid. And Blair's ill-concealed smirk told him everything he needed to know.

"Did Mommy already say no?" he guided his son to sprinkle a little more flour into the bowl.

"Yes but I want one!" she immediately whipped her long hair around and pleaded with him, his own eyes blinking up wide at him, pitifully sorrowful.

Chuck smirked too. Blair Waldorf was his wife, he wished he could tell his daughter there was _no way _he was going to fall for a face straight out of her playbook.

"I want one too!" her brother chimed in, although his vehemence was clearly about mimicking his elder sister than any real want to possess an oversized hot air balloon.

He was distracted, lifting his flour-covered hand to his mouth curiously. Chuck laughed, craning around to catch the little features screw up in disgust at the dry taste.

"Where would we put a giant parade balloon?" Blair repeated her earlier argument.

"The living room?" her first-born proposed without missing a beat. Not willing to let any impediment get in her way.

"With a giant balloon it would be too _crowded _when our guests arrive for Thanksgiving dinner," her dad logically extrapolated, sending a secret smile to Blair. "Then we wouldn't be able to eat our pie. And you know its Mommy's favourite."

She struggled and failed to not smile back at him.

"We could put the balloon in my room," the youngest member of the family offered. Their little peacemaker.

"Yeah!" his sister agreed, problem solved.

"And where will you sleep?" Chuck prodded, turning around to retrieve the marble rolling pin from a kitchen drawer.

Tiny soft pink lips pursed and the Manhattan Prince considered the question very carefully. After all the balloons were quite big. He finally came up with the perfect solution. "I can sleep with you and Mommy."

"Bah-bow," sibling experience chimed in with the famous strike-out noise. "Daddy and Mommy don't like sharing their bed."

Chuck smirked, snorting softly.

"That's correct my love," Blair laughed at her daughter, rubbing her back gently.

There definitely wasn't room for anyone else in their bed.

"I can sleep with you," big brown eyes tried again, looking up at his older sister innocently.

There was a pause and then she enquired "near my clothes?"

"Yes," he refocused his attention on Chuck's big hands scattering flour across the marble bench top and then turning the pastry out.

While his father began pushing the little hands deep into the dough under the guise of kneading, his sister quickly decided "We don't have room for a balloon."

Blair giggled at her decision and even Chuck couldn't suppress an amused low laugh of his own.

"Look at it squidging!" the tiniest member of the room giggled to himself, completely unaware of the older dynamic.

"We're trying to make it into a ball," Chuck tried to redirect his little boy's hands as they pulled the dough apart into fistfuls.

"Can we stir now? I'm tired of mashing," long locks flipped as their head twisted up to look to her mother for guidance.

"Sure. As soon as Daddy and the prince have lined the dish with pastry we can pour it in."

Blair retrieved a teaspoon out of the cutlery drawer and handed it to her daughter, watching the face full of her father's dark looks and framed by her mother's soft hair.

"You can do a taste test and make sure the filling is ok."

Blair's hand lovingly drifted down the length of her daughter's hair and Chuck's heart swelled at the sight of it. Her first-born child innocently scooped a big spoon of the pumpkin filling out of the bowl and made an appreciative "mmmm," sound.

"It's good," she decreed with royal authority. The effect was somewhat spoiled when a portion of her taste test dribbled down her aproned front. Blair was doubly glad she'd thought to cover the children's clothes before this baking exercise began.

Her daughter refilled the spoon with pumpkin filling and offered it up for affirmation. "What do you think?"

Craving approval like her parents had at this age. Blair took a big taste and made an "mmmm, delicious," decision of her own, revelling in the smile that blossomed on the fresh pink cheeks.

"Delicious," her baby girl mimicked proudly. "Does it need anything else?" she asked eagerly.

Blair picked up one final spice and handed it over.

"A shake of nutmeg and we're done."

Bouncy curls jumped enthusiastically and then stirred the final holiday spice through the orange mash. "Hurry up Daddy," she ordered restlessly. "I want to pour the filling."

Chuck grinned at her decree as the empty baking dish was silently delivered to his elbow by a more competent pair of feminine hands.

"We're trying," he excused the slow pace with a smile. He took up the rolling pin and then slowly helped his boy roll out the base to a big flat circle. "Like this," he was intent on his child and the task at hand, matching expressions of concentration painting their brows as they draped the pastry over the top of the pie dish.

Once it was ready he offered an eagerly anticipated sentence to his daughter. "You can help press it in."

Blair lifted the keen girl in her perfectly pressed dress and matching pink apron to stand alongside her brother. The sparkly blue ballet flats landed confidently on the kitchen chair, coming to rest beside the smaller pair of racing green leathers. Then four small hands dove into the pie base and pressed, the children diligently forming the pastry to the sides of the dish. Behind them both parent's eyes met and a soft smile touched Blair's pink mouth.

Chuck was unable to resist and found himself leaning over to taste her sweet lips. He made a very soft, keening whimper when her fingertips brushed the soft, closely-shaven skin of his pale jaw and their mouths melded together.

"It's done!" their baby girl interrupted them.

Her parents pulled away reluctantly, Chuck's eyelids drowsy and low as he savoured the pumpkin taste on Blair's tongue. His eyes flickered to the silver bracelet as it caught the light and flashed at her wrist.

Small reminders of each beautiful thing in his life, resting safely in her hands.

"Look look," the three year old started jumping up and down to attract their attention, diverting Chuck from his thoughts.

Blair immediately wrapped her arm around the over-excited boy to make sure he didn't fall.

"Well look at that my little prince," Blair sounded surprised to find the lumpy pie base pressed into its casing.

"Are you ready to pour?" Chuck similarly encompassed his daughter and pressed a kiss into the top of her sweet smelling head.

"Yes," she said seriously, reaching out her hands to help him lift the mixing bowl.

"Just like that bright star," he said softly, carefully steadying the heavy bowl.

Together they scraped the pumpkin filling in, Blair swiping her finger through the last drop.

"Oh no," pink-tipped four year old fingers pointed worriedly towards Blair's wrist. "The queen's tiara got pumpkin on it."

Blair pulled back, inspecting the prominent coronet on her charm bracelet.

"We can't have that," she reached out for a cloth and wiped away the stray filling.

She glanced up to find Chuck eying her wrist hungrily. She knew when she put this bracelet on this morning that it was his favourite piece of jewellery after his wedding ring on her finger. Even now he couldn't resist capturing her wrist and drawing it to his mouth. Her eyes fluttered and she had licked her bottom lip, trying to get a hold of herself as her husband captured the thin flesh and sucked.

A quick glimpse of her son looking at her curiously and Blair immediately tugged her fingers from Chuck's grasp.

"Better?" her son enquired innocently.

"All clean," Chuck gave him a grin, the true meaning of which went completely over the little one's head.

"Does it go in the oven now?" his sister wanted to know, shooting a look at the heating appliance.

"One more thing." Blair briefly released the bouncy boy, shooting Chuck a look which ensured he quickly had a firm arm wrapped around each of his children, balancing them on the chair.

She reached down a magical glass jar filled with brown sugar and unhinged the snap-tight lid.

"A pinch each, sprinkled over the top."

A four year old understood the concept of a pinch and withdrew a very dainty amount of the sugar, holding it up for her mother's approval.

"Perfect," Blair nodded.

The three year old, however, was quite far off base. He reached into the jar and grasped a fistful of sugar in his little hand.

"Not quite," Blair smiled and went in with him, coaxing his fingers open to release the load of sugar. "These two," she showed him how to pinch his small thumb and forefinger together to trap a tiny bit of sugar.

"Like this?" he held up his hand.

"Exactly," Blair praised. "Now rub them together over the top of the pumpkin."

That was beyond him and the dark sugar landed in a single lump on top but no one particularly cared.

Chuck slipped his arm around Blair's trim waist and squeezed her tight. Their hands dipped into the sugar jar one after the other, each taking a pinch of the dark, sticky granules. Like scattering a handful of salt, Chuck precisely delivered his payload over the surface while Blair's fell more like a final dusting of fairy sparkle over the top.

"I can put it in the oven."

"What's the rule about the oven?" Blair immediately cut that plan off, reaching for the pie dish and lifting it far out of reach, over her babies' heads.

The little girl looked crestfallen. "Only Dorota and Mommy and Daddy," she repeated quietly. "And caterers."

Chuck pouted at Blair, mimicking his daughter over her head but quietly making her case for her too. Blair narrowed her eyes at him. His bottom lip pushed out even further and goddamn it if her heart didn't pull at the thought of crushing her daughter's hopes.

She slapped his shoulder then looked down, conceding since it was Thanksgiving after all.

"Can I trust you to be a very, _very_ good girl?" she tested, taking the pie dish in two hands.

Caramel eyes widened considerably and her little head began furiously bobbing up and down. Blair lifted an eyebrow and in response Chuck released the little bright star to fall down to earth on her own.

Her dainty shoes touched the kitchen floor a second later.

"Well if you could open the oven door for me that would be very helpful," Blair decreed, her heels clicking as she moved across the kitchen to the oven.

"Just touch the handle, not the glass," she warned. "Careful bright star, don't touch anything else or you'll get burnt and will be very very sore."

Wide caramel eyes were extremely cautious and did as they were told, using both hands to pull down the oven door and then stepping back as the wave of heat washed over her.

Blair slid the pie onto the first shelf then let her daughter close the oven up again.

Chuck had already nudged the height-giving chair with his foot so it faced the other side of the bench, smack bang in front of the sink. Now he flicked on the taps and got to work. His boy's little hands had fully immersed themselves in the baking experience and now he tugged them beneath the warm running water.

"Daddy, how many Thanksgiving pies have you made?" his son asked, one of the many many questions forever tumbling out of him.

Chuck pretended to muse on the number as he ran the pad of his large elegant thumb over each small finger, pressing the butter and flour off the baby skin. "That depends," he qualified. "How old are you again, little prince?" Like he'd ever forget, but there was a certain baby of the family who did enjoy any opportunity to doll out this piece of information.

"Free!" Three pudgy fingers were held up to demonstrate visually and Chuck quickly captured them, dragging them back under the warm water lest more fallout from their baking experience splatter across the kitchen.

"I'm free Daddy," he repeated.

"Then that's three, plus one for the year my bright star was born, and one for the year it was simply me and Mommy." He lifted one more finger at a time then asked "You tell me how many that is."

While a three-year-old mind started at the beginning and diligently counted each of his fingers from scratch, Chuck rested his cheek on top of the small dark head and turned to watch his beloved. She was knelt down and looking into the oven with their daughter, inspecting the pie as it began to bake. Still, she was smiling, no doubt because she could hear his conversation.

"Five," a wary voice guessed.

"Five," his father confirmed. "One, two, three, four, five." He counted off each finger, curling them down towards the nickel-sized palm. Then shut off the water and grabbed a dish cloth, capturing the hands again and proceeding to wipe them off before they could cause any damage, fashion-related or otherwise.

"Now, who feels like a walk before lunch?" Blair stood up, leading her daughter over so they too could wash their hands.

Chuck lifted his boy up off the chair and sat him on the bench top so he could remove the final baking hazard from his son. The flour and pumpkin covered apron.

"Me," the boy announced, scrunching up his face when the apron string momentarily captured his head.

"Can we go to the park?" his sister chimed in.

"If you'd like," Blair indulged, lovingly running her hand down the back of her daughter's fine hair.

"Yes please. I want to see the ducks! Do they get a Thanksgiving dinner too?" it was a question Blair herself had asked twenty years previous and she grinned at her own image.

"We could take them some dinner," she pointed out.

"Ducks," her son had found a word he liked and started saying it over and over. "Ducks. Dddd-ucks."

"Is there any bread? Ducks like bread," she looked up for confirmation to her mother standing behind her.

Blair's hands plunged under the warm water, sharing the clear running stream with her daughter as they washed the traces of their baking experience away.

"Dorota usually keeps a little in the back of the pantry. Why don't you go check?" She handed over a dishcloth then took another for herself.

Once Blair's hands were dry she removed her apron and reached for her excited little boy, meaning to take him after he finished the affectionate hug he was sharing with his father.

"We'll get into our coats and meet you at the door."

Chuck frowned, clearly mystified as to what he was expected to do in the meantime. Her hand flicked his shirt then reached up and touched his lips. It only took him a second to taste pumpkin. A glance down reminded him that he was covered in flour.

He snorted a laugh then reached over to kiss her cheek. "I'll meet you at the elevator," he promised huskily.

Blair snagged his wrist as he took a step towards the door and pulled him back in for a deeper kiss. His hand found her back, squeezing mindlessly as she lifted up into him, parting her soft lips.

"Are you ok?" she wanted to confirm. She pressed her forehead to his and waited patiently for an answer, not letting him get away from her while he was still keeping important things to himself.

Chuck smiled and laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently to soak up all the strength she offered. His thumb reached up and brushed over her charm bracelet one more time. He could feel the sculpture of double linked wedding rings press between the pad of his thumb and her wrist for just a moment. "Yes," he assured.

xoxo

He gazed at Blair's sleeping head on the pillow beside him, trying to memorise every little detail. Not that he needed to look at her, he'd been devouring her soft features with his hungry gaze for more than a decade now. But just in case he wasn't allowed to return home tonight, just in case this was the last time he was allowed to watch her sleep, he drunk in the sight of her.

When the pre-dawn lit the sky purple he rose, leaning over and kissing her shoulder. Hoping to god it wasn't the last time. He lingered, taking in her warm skin and the taste of every piece of happiness he'd experienced in his life. Finally he forced himself to lift the covers and leave the marriage bed that had treated him so well. He didn't look back, making his way to his dressing room silently.

He didn't return to look at her when he was fully dressed because he knew he wouldn't be able to walk away. Instead he headed downstairs, to the kitchen and, it felt like his doom.

"Coffee?" her voice startled him as it slipped through the settled early morning quiet.

Chuck's heart slammed in his chest, unprepared for the sight of Blair in her robe, smugly leaning back against the kitchen bench top where just hours ago they'd been baking the Thanksgiving pie as a family. Now their china breakfast set for two was laid out before her, matching teacups steaming with freshly brewed coffee.

"You're awake," he noted, covering his momentary stumble and mentally swearing that she'd so easily caught him off guard.

Blair lifted an eyebrow challengingly. Reprimanding him without words for thinking he could slip away from her that easily. He blinked, then set his briefcase down and walked straight to her.

The silk of her gown slipped beneath his hand as he ran his fingers over her hip. He may be about to ruin them but he loved her, so much, and the instinct to greet her with a gentle kiss like he did every other morning was now so long engrained it was habit.

It was wonderful, he realised. To kiss Blair and have her kiss him back. To feel her lips slowly move against his and the familiar soft little sigh of happiness while they greeted one another. Her tongue tentatively parted his lips and then slid into his mouth, stealing his very breath.

Their mouths disengaged but their foreheads pressed together and he couldn't bear to open his eyes.

"Where are you going so early?" she didn't demand but he was compelled to answer her.

She said it in a tone of weary sadness, like she already knew he was on his way to end every thing he loved, everything in his life that made it worth living. Her arms crept around him and he let himself be subsumed in her embrace. Soon her chin was lying on his shoulder and he couldn't help revelling in the comfort.

"Are you going to tell me now?" she asked in a voice barely more than a hushed whisper.

It was so quiet in their penthouse. The children weren't awake yet, Dorota hadn't arrived, even Monkey was asleep. It was just the two of them. And he felt like there was absolutely nowhere to hide from Blair. But he still tried.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," he was very convincing playing dumb, and if it were anyone else he would have gotten away with it.

Blair's ruby ring caught the dawn light in his vision and he watched her finger as it stroked down his cheek possessively. Then her dark, familiar eyes looked up at him.

"I know you Chuck Bass," she said in her soft, serious voice that almost tugged his heart right out of his chest. It also told him that he wasn't going to get any further chance to deny her.

She reached up on her toes and her lips touched his very briefly.

"Tell me," she coaxed. "It's serious. What's going on at the Empire?"

He closed his eyes briefly, then licked his bottom lip. "How did you know it was bad?"

Their hands twined together and Blair lifted his knuckles to her lips, pressing a long, silent kiss onto the ridges of bone. "You're not your father. You don't work on Thanksgiving," she simply justified. She peered up at him from beneath her lashes and he was blown away by how _knowing _her gaze was. Like she was in his mind and seeing everything he did.

Then she lifted an eyebrow and dropped her voice to a more private whisper "And holidays don't inspire you to make love to me like it's the last time."

He smirked knowingly. Well that he couldn't deny. Last night was pretty spectacular, if he did say so himself. Sometimes he's surprised that fireworks don't miraculously explode over their bed when they move together like that. Cockily he wrapped her up in an embrace, drawing in a long, steadying breath and pulling her closer. Hearing it said out loud was more terrifying than he could admit even to himself.

That there may be a time in the near future when something tore her away. That the future may have finally arrived. God he didn't want last night to be their last time.

"I love you so much," he whimpered unprompted.

"I love you too," Blair confusedly returned, looking up at him with familiar eyes saturated with worry. "You're scaring me. Please," she begged.

Chuck closed his eyes, titled his head back. He shouldn't tell her. He shouldn't. He should leave her safe in the apartment, whole and loving, a wonderful mother to his children with the big ol' key to his heart and walk away. He shouldn't risk exposing her again.

If only he could keep himself from needing her input. From longing for her insight. From _relying _on her like he'd come to in the creeping years of their marriage.

"Jack," was the single word he said. He shouldn't have even said that but couldn't stop himself.

Blair stiffened into a steel girder of furied strength in his arms. "Is here?" she guessed.

He nodded silently, looking away, out the window.

Still a coward, after all this time.

"What does he want?" she demanded, her own heart thumping worriedly.

Yet she pulled back and gripped his jaw, forced him to look her straight in the eye. Controlling the situation as she was wont to do.

"To destroy me?" Chuck lamented sadly. "Take away everything I love? I don't know."

Her hand loosened until only her index finger remained on his chin. In silence she reached up again and her lips found his in a soft caress. "He doesn't get to have me," she reminded gently, grinding through to the very crux of the Jack problem. The root that had originally caused every issue Chuck had with his only living relative. "No matter how much he tried, he never has."

Chuck pushed her hand away, pushing her away. Blair's face pulled back a little, stunned as she watched him start to build the walls around his heart that had been missing for so long now. "That's not exactly true is it?" he was cocky and aloof.

"Hey," she wouldn't let him turn away from her and she certainly wasn't being forced from her husband when it was just the two of them in the intimacy of their kitchen. Her hand found the plane of his chest and came to rest, fingers slipping beneath his tie and between the buttons in familiarity. "I slept with him once," she put it bluntly, the thing they always left unsaid. "He's another one of the many – like Carter Baizen," she lifted an eyebrow.

Trying to make it almost impersonal.

If only.

"That doesn't make me feel better," he sniped.

"Well it should," she narrowed her eyes. "Technically I slept way more times with Nate, and felt more for him too. So you should really be concerned about my feelings for your best friend, not your uncle that I let touch me _once _while I was drunk and practically underage."

Her words brought a small smile to his face, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. Then a slightly bigger smile. Before he couldn't keep it down any longer and a laugh finally slipped free of his taught features. Because the idea of Blair having feelings for Nate was actually comical at this stage in their lives.

"Not so underage," he grabbed her upper arms tightly and pulled her flush against him, still smiling against his will. "You'd already been with me many, _many _times."

A certain weight slipped off his shoulders as the teenage girl he'd once snuck around with, or rather her more elegant mature self, smirked right back.

"You're eight months younger than me," she reminded smugly. "Jack," she stroked her hands over his shoulders. "Is seventeen years _older _than either of us. I would actually call that paedophilia. You know why he wants me, don't you?" she coyly pretended to be interested in straightening the lapels of his suit.

"Because you're mine," Chuck seethed, ducking his head until she was forced to meet his gaze. "And he knows how happy you make me."

He hungrily grabbed her lips with his own and felt his muscles tense. Blair forced her own harsh kiss back onto his lips before wrenching away, panting evilly.

"Or," she tilted her head self-confidently, her dark hair slipping over the thin pale silk on her shoulders. "I'm so good at sex I made Chuck Bass desperate for more after only my first time. Can you imagine how I must have rocked Jack Bass's world after that?"

His eyes widened and then they both burst into laughter. Chuck's face dropping into the curve of her shoulder to try and suppress the sound that echoed throughout the marble room.

"Stop laughing," she eventually hit his shoulder, still shuddering with amusement herself.

He nosed into the folds of her gown and started kissing her stark collarbone, snorts escaping free every few seconds mixed with his gratefulness.

"I'm glad I have you," he was able to get out. "I don't say that often enough but you're my world Blair."

"I know," she looked up into his fiery, passionate eyes and smiled, lovingly running her fingers through the waves of his lengthening hair. It must almost be time for a cut. "You've given me everything," she whispered.

They stopped talking and just stared at one another, the sun rising behind them and poring through the wooden sash windows, illuminating their faces in a muted warm glow. Blair reached up and Chuck's nose brushed over hers before he tilted his head just enough so their mouths could press together.

There weren't words. Sounds couldn't express what their mouths needed to say. His belt was released and zip drawn down. Her robe was parted and the slip beneath hiked up. Blair kept caressing his shoulders. With a small jump and lift from his hands, with a little rolling of her hips and strategic positioning of her thighs, she managed to capture him inside her. Chuck groaned softly and pushed forward, sinking so deep into her.

They _looked _at each other while their hips slowly moved. Their fingers wondrously touched one another's faces and they shared chaste kisses but mostly they looked. Watched. Felt what the other felt.

When they peaked they were still staring. Blair came first, her hands trembling, her back arching into him desperately until she seized up tight and bit his shoulder to keep herself from screaming. Chuck's eyes closed for just a moment, heavy with happy relief and he genuinely smiled as he squeezed her to him. He kept moving because she liked that, to feel him opening her as she came.

Blair rubbed her thumb over his cheek and tightened her thighs, all she could do until his strokes became shorter, faster. Then he came in a hot torrent, gushing warm and completely out of his control as she cupped his jaw and she watched him, he watched her, until he collapsed and she cuddled.

"Stay here," she begged in a whisper. "We will figure this out, don't do this on your own."

He nodded, surrendered, and held her while she held him, drew his arms around her and then pulled him close into a hug.

"You're my everything," he whispered, brushing his nose against her cheek. "He'll tear us apart again but I don't know how to do this without sacrificing everything we have."

xoxo

A month later at Christmas she is unwrapping her favourite bracelet again. This time he has commissioned a pin sized dagger set with tiny droplets, blood-red rubies. The jeweller thinks its absolutely macabre. Blair loves it.

"For helping me slay my demons," he whispers softly as he refastens it around her triumphant wrist.

The new charm hangs beside Diana the huntress – gifted when she stalked him, her prey, deep into the forest of his dark despair and struck him with the arrow of her love. On the other side of the new dripping dagger is the sapphire prince, soldered into place when her male heir was born not to a French kingdom but as legacy of Bartholomew Bass.

Chuck draws her hand to his mouth and flicks his tongue over her palm, grinning naughtily when her eyes shiver closed. He slowly begins trailing his mouth up the sensitive skin of her inner arm and revelling in her uninhibited reaction. Every figure on this bracelet is a symbol of his good fortune. And she treated each charm as the gifts of his love they were.

As he moves her onto her back the warm metal trails against his neck, letting him know she is looping her delicate fingers around his shoulders.

"Which one is that?" she teases, watching him shudder and struggle to hold himself together.

"The points of the diamond bright star," he answers without hesitation, knowing the feeling of that particular charm anywhere. "When life was born. When the Bass family truly came into being."

Blair's face lights up in a beaming smile, struck with the romance of his words and the happy gaze that bores down into her own, blazing with sparkling light. It's true. When their little girl's existence began it was a big bang, the very beginning of his universe expanding exponentially.

"Don't let her know that," Blair teases, wriggling deliciously. "Or she'll wheedle a way into having our apartment filled with parade balloons."

xoxo

Thanks for reading once again, I hope you enjoyed it.


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